Crooked River(84)

“What?” he said. “Who is this?”

He heard the same voice uttering a command to shut the window, and suddenly the wind tunnel died away. “Lady, I can’t see a thing through the windshield,” came a plaintive voice.

“You can open it again in a moment.”

Now Coldmoon recognized the voice. It was Constance Greene, speaking to what seemed to be a driver.

“Constance?” he said.

“Yes. I’ve been trying to reach you for the last quarter of an hour.”

“I just landed now. Tallahassee—they had to divert because of this storm. What’s up? Where are you?”

“Never mind. Have you heard from Pendergast?” There was an urgency in her voice.

There was a brief commotion on the other end of the line. “Like I said,” Coldmoon heard the driver tell Constance, “Estero Bay runs almost all the way to Bonita Springs. You gotta tell me where to turn off.”

“As I told you: where the police are going to be!” Then, speaking to Coldmoon again: “Did he say where he was going next? What he planned to do?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I think he’s been abducted.”

Coldmoon, who’d been getting ready to join the queue leaving the plane, froze. “What?” This sounded crazy.

“I heard it on your police scanner. They found the burned remains of a Range Rover similar to the one he was driving. A witness mentioned helicopters, automatic weapons, some kind of firefight. A dead man was found in the rear seat, burned.”

Holy shit. Coldmoon was on his feet and in the aisle now, heading for the exit. “Anything else?”

“I got a call from Roger Smithback, the journalist. He spoke of a large shipment of missing drugs, apparently stolen along with some migrants abducted at the U.S. border in Arizona. It’s somehow connected to the feet.”

“Wait. Did you say migrants abducted at the border?”

“Yes. In trucks.”

“Trucks? What kind of trucks?”

“A convoy of government trucks, identical, their numbers painted over. Ten-wheelers. Covered in canvas. Drums bolted in front of the driver.”

This matched the story he’d heard from El Monito—matched it exactly.

Coldmoon left the gate and began making his way toward the main terminal. “Those drums are air cleaners, mounted over the left front fenders. We’re talking M813 troop transports, most likely equipped with side racks, troop seats, and tarpaulins. Drug gangs don’t use those—the U.S. Army does. Did he say where they were going?”

“Just a moment.” The phone was muffled briefly; then Coldmoon could hear Constance talking to the driver. “Over there. See the flickering orange light, just below the horizon? Head that way, as quickly as you can.”

“Lady, there’s no road, and I don’t have pontoons. Oh, jeez, now there’s red and blue lights coming on, too—looks like your cops.”

Coldmoon could hear sirens passing.

“Keep driving until you find the turnoff.”

“But my car—”

“I’ll purchase your car.” And then, Constance was back with Coldmoon. “I need to go.”

Coldmoon said, “Are you sure the Rover was Pendergast’s?”

“I’ll call you back when I know more.” And then the phone went silent, leaving Coldmoon standing there, looking at it, in the middle of the arrivals section of Tallahassee International Airport.





49



MARK MACREADY, ACTUARY by profession and currently between jobs, had never liked his wife’s idea that he use his new Lincoln Navigator and become a driver for Uber, as a way to make ends meet during this rough patch. He liked it a whole lot less right now, driving in the rain on a gravel road, through swamps and stands of pine trees at fifty miles an hour, heading—as far as he could tell—directly toward the bay.

“Go faster,” said the crazy woman in the seat behind him.

Even though it meant increasing the chances of a head-on collision with some tree, Macready complied. He knew that reasoning with this passenger from hell was useless at best, and at worst encouraged threats. She’d already agreed to pay him $1,000 extra for this ride, tossing a crumpled mass of hundred-dollar bills into the front seat. That money, which he needed dearly, was the only reason he hadn’t ended the trip prematurely.

A savage bump, then the scrape of a branch along his window. “That’s going to leave a scratch,” he said, easing off on the accelerator.

“Maintain speed.”

Another bump, this one almost bottoming out the suspension, and then suddenly the trees fell away and, through the steady rain, Macready could see there was open marshland ahead of them. They were closer to whatever was going on than he’d realized; police lights were striping the vegetation less than half a mile away. If it weren’t for the dark night, he’d stick out like a sore thumb.

“Here. Stop,” came the low voice from behind him.

Thank the Lord. Macready did so with a strong sense of relief.

“Thank you, Mr. Macready, for what I realize was not quite the trip you expected,” the young woman said. “Now I’m going to ask you to turn off your engine and remain here until I return. It might be fifteen minutes; it might be longer—I can’t be certain.”